


I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

by Smith



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smith/pseuds/Smith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan made a decision, Malcolm suffered.</p>
<p>"For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remembering

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary taken from the poem I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth. This was inspired by a word prompt at The Delphic Expanse fiction archive, wax.
> 
> A huge thank you to mareel and hitlikehammers for their beta work.

The old house stared down at him, and he stared back at it with trepidation, the redbrick exterior tangled with ivy, crawling lazily over the highest windows. He approached the broad front door, crossing the bridge over a waterway that looked suspiciously like a moat, and rang a bell that boomed through the building. 

Trip had visited twice already with T'Pol, commenting more on the remarkable estate than the man they'd left behind. Jonathan had tried not to let himself wonder.

Truthfully, he had been avoiding this encounter for a long time, too afraid of what he would find. The last time he'd seen his former officer, he had been a dim spectre of himself in danger of fading away entirely - his body wrecked by injury, his mind seeking escape.

Jonathan leaned against the door frame and rang the bell again, waiting another five minutes before realising he wasn't going to get an answer.

The bridge creaked as he ventured back over and found a small pathway in the grass skirting the moat. His eyes followed the bees swarming about the blossoms in the thicket to his left, the sweet fragrance of the flowers lighting his way.

At the back of the house, the moat stretched around a small, fenced garden containing two symmetrical patches of flowers. On the patio, a cold cup of tea and an empty plate sat on a wrought iron table beneath a collapsed sun umbrella, another bee exploring a stain on the rim. Beyond the manicured yard, a dusty path lined with trees led up a gentle slope, and in the sunlight at the top, he noticed a figure in a white hat beginning to limp down the hill.

Jonathan lingered in the shade of a tree as the figure grew closer, waiting until the protective veil was gone to meet his eyes, still startlingly blue even in the shadows. "Hello, Malcolm."

Malcolm seemed unfazed by his presence as he slowed to a halt beside him. "Hello, Jonathan."

At the greeting, Jon's eyes drifted towards the small white hives beyond the orchard a few hundred yards away, "You're..." His brows dipped. "A beekeeper now?"

Malcolm smiled vaguely and shook his head. "I am an apiarist."

"Right." Jonathan grinned uneasily, used to Malcolm offering corrections.

They fell into a leisurely pace back towards the house, Jonathan subconsciously matching his steps to the slow, ambling limp of his former officer. As they arrived at the sunbathed yard, Malcolm drew close to the table and gently removed a bee from the edge of his abandoned teacup. "You might fall in, darling. My mistake for leaving it out."

The worker bee quickly buzzed away and Malcolm busied himself picking up the articles and taking them inside. Jonathan frowned in puzzlement and followed into the relative dimness of the kitchen, unacquainted with this version of his old friend.

"So, I can't say I'm surprised you came here." Malcolm remained nonchalant as he rinsed out his cup and plate, depositing them in the dish washer. "Trip did warn me, and I did expect a visit sooner or later. Not sure anyone expected it to be quite this much later, but what is it they say?" He rolled his tongue in his mouth, as if tasting the phrase. "Better late than never." His shoulder twitched in a half-shrug, his tone remaining even despite the apparent bitterness of his words. "Not sure I agree with that."

Jonathan nodded slowly. He should have expected this conversation, but before he could summon his excuses, Malcolm was talking again.

"Do you want something to eat or drink?" He limped over to the fridge. "I have really good coffee, a number of teas, and several meals I can reheat in a moment."

"You cook now?"

"Not exactly. I garden, but between that and my apiculture I get very tired, so I hire someone to clean the house and another very talented gentleman who makes my meals." He peered at the shelves of food. "I presently have minestrone soup, grilled vegetables and a lemon risotto in the fridge, and in the freezer I've got lasagna, seafood paella and a fruit crumble."

"I'm fine, thanks." Jonathan nodded, easing himself uncertainly into a chair at the table.

"Suit yourself." Malcolm retrieved a container for himself and pushed it into the microwave, beginning to brew a fresh cup of tea. "Lunch has become my favourite meal of the day. I'm too stiff to enjoy anything but toast slathered in anything runnier than toast in the morning, and by evening I'm exhausted."

After closing the back door, Malcolm found his cane and moved back over to his boiled water, steeping the tea bag for an extended amount of time and stirring in a little sugar. "I'm assuming it's your guilty conscience that brought you here, though whether it's over me or the war I don't know. I'm beyond acting as your refuge, Jonathan, so if that's what you're seeking you won't find it. I lost the ability to be a refuge when none was offered to me."

Jonathan took a sharp breath and his eyes dropped. "Malcolm," he sighed. "That's not why I came here."

"Am I to understand you weren't expecting hostility?" One brow rose quite unapologetically, his voice cooling. "My apologies, I clearly misread the situation." He hurriedly slid his meal onto a tray with his tea and left the room, cradling it with one hand as the other gripped his cane.

The house creaked as they stopped talking, babbling nervously to fill the silence. Jonathan let it continue for a few minutes before getting to his feet and tentatively venturing out of the kitchen in search of Malcolm. He found him two doors down in the drawing room, a spacious but comfortable corner littered with half-burned candles, empty cups and hundreds of books slumped on shelves and scattered on every other available surface.

"Looks like you've been spending a lot of time here," Jon mumbled, for lack of anything else to say, gesturing to the blankets and pillows on the sofa.

"Sometimes it's difficult getting up the stairs so I sleep down here. All my books and manuals are here, and a means of contact with the outside world." He tapped the console on the coffee table with his cane. "I've been meaning to either install a chair lift or convert a room, but either would damage the integrity of the house and I haven't settled it with my conscience yet."

"Sleeping on a sofa can't be good for your leg." Jonathan frowned, choosing an armchair by the wall and carefully moving the stash of PADDs piled there.

Malcolm blew on the spoonful of soup suspended between the bowl and his mouth, his expression entirely apathetic. "That's what my doctor keeps telling me."

"So you're going to exacerbate your pain just because you don't want to ruin some walls and floors?" Jonathan grimaced. He knew he was provoking his old friend but he couldn't help himself.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes incredulously, "This house is incredibly old, and it is the only thing my father has ever given me. He would turn in his grave if I were to lay a hand on it." He shrugged, rolling a shoulder until it clicked and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Besides, as far as pain goes, my life can only slide downward in increments from here onward, so it seems mostly all the same nowadays."

Jon stared at him critically for a moment. "Damnit, Malcolm. Still as stubborn as you ever were, to your own detriment."

"It's worked perfectly fine for me so far." Malcolm glanced at him and sipped his tea.

"This is not perfectly fine; you're living alone in an old house where you can't even sleep in your own bed."

"You and I clearly have differing definitions of fine." Malcolm only shrugged.

Jonathan blinked. "Clearly."

Sighing, he slumped heavily back into the chair and glared out of the window. He felt Malcolm's eyes burn into him for several moments before he apparently looked away to finish his soup.

Only the quiet clink of the spoon against the empty bowl could draw Jon out of his thoughts. He glanced back to his companion and their eyes met, the expression on Malcolm's face so old and familiar that he almost smiled. But all too quickly the moment was shattered as Malcolm dropped his gaze and started unfurling his blankets.

"I usually take a nap in the middle of the day." He manoeuvred his leg into as comfortable a position as he could manage these days before adjusting the pillows. "Feel free to linger and gather your fill of whatever you came to find, as long as it doesn't involve me."

With his brows furrowed, Jonathan watched as Malcolm lay down and closed his eyes. "Let me at least help you up the stairs so you can be more comfortable."

"No, thank you. The task of walking back down is exhausting and painful."

"Then I could stay and help you back down as well."

"No, thank you. I don't want you around that long."

"Malcolm-"

"Goodbye, Jonathan." Malcolm shifted onto his back and turned his head away. "Make sure to leave everything as you found it when you go."

Jonathan closed his mouth and stared intently at him, but by the time he had chosen his words, his companion's breathing had grown deep and even. He let out a sigh and cautiously approached, just enough so that he could illicitly observe Malcolm's sleeping face, a sight he thought he had forfeited three years ago. For a moment, he felt as if no force on heaven or earth could tear him away, but gradually he realised, if only to honour Malcolm's wishes - something he had not done in a long time - he should leave, at least the room.

He was acutely aware of the heavy thud of his racing heart as he turned his back on Malcolm once more, his hand trembling on the door handle, but he knew he couldn't cling to the expression on his old friend's face in hope for the past. The quiet click of the door echoed in the hallway, momentarily easing the weight of all he had lost, and he elected to take a personal tour of this museum of Malcolm to pass the time.

Every room contained a beeswax candle, lighting them all with a sweet honey fragrance, even those full of dusty, unused furniture he doubted Malcolm selected for himself. They taught him at every turn how aptly bees fit Malcolm as a motif, soldiers serving their queen, even as distant as he was from the person Jonathan had once known. The house itself only reminded him more acutely of this distance: every room that was neat and well-arranged was a place Malcolm didn't inhabit, and chaos reigned in the few places he did. It was nothing like his quarters aboard the Enterprise, or the one drawer he'd occupied in Jon's room, nothing like what he expected from a house belonging to his former lover.

With the bees humming in the wildflowers, he ended up skimming rocks across the lake on the grounds until the sun began to set and he wandered over the hill back to the house, finding Malcolm ambling out of the drawing room.

Their eyes met and Jonathan stiffened, hyperaware of an impending admonishment.

Instead, Malcolm shook his head and limped past him into the kitchen, visibly suppressing a wince. "If you're hungry, feel free to join me for dinner." He paused to retrieve a hypospray, swaying and sighing shakily as he found relief from the pain in his leg.

Jon hesitated only a fraction of a second. "I'd love to have dinner with you."

Malcolm turned away with a roll of his eyes and started heating two containers. "Help yourself to a beer, a glass of wine, anything you find in the fridge or pantry."

"Thanks." He browsed in the fridge, finding an imported Italian lager in the back that struck his interest, amongst an assortment of local and international brews.

The food was on the table by the time he'd stopped poking through the bottles, but Malcolm was already on his way back to the drawing room. Frowning, Jonathan grabbed his plate and followed, stubbornly sitting in the chair by the window and watching his old friend until their eyes met.

"Why bees?" He inclined his head. "I understand your father collected lepidoptera. Like father, like son?"

Malcolm stared at him inscrutably, his eyes darkening, before shaking his head. "Perhaps." He shrugged, prodding his food rather than eating it. "I find their sense of order and purpose comforting, and in return for that comfort, I protect and nurture them. It's what I'm good at, after all."

"I see." Jonathan nodded, his lips pursed.

"Listen." Malcolm tossed his fork against the plate with a clatter, relocating his meal atop a stack of journals on the coffee table. "Having you here makes me intensely uncomfortable, but it's clear you won't leave without saying your part, so I think we should get it out of the way." He fumbled for his cane and uneasily got to his feet. "Take a walk with me."

"What about your leg?" He all but chased him through to the kitchen.

"I've been walking the grounds of this house on and off since I was five." Malcolm waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not going to let a little leg pain stop me. Besides, I've just taken my medication. Come on, keep up." He assumed a determined pace as he left the house and ventured towards the beehives, their ubiquitous inhabitants growing quiet for the night.

Jonathan had to hurry to keep up, though he could see the angry pace was causing his companion some discomfort, the faintest of winces twitching his left eye. Against his better judgement, he lightly grabbed Malcolm's arm. "Wait."

The vitriol in the man's bright eyes when he turned around was enough to deter Jonathan from trying that again.

Malcolm took a step back, but otherwise seemed to have stopped. "Don't."

"Just slow down." He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he glanced around the darkened landscape. "I've always had trouble keeping up with you."

"Surely that's not such a problem now?" For half an instant, the echo of a cold smirk touched Malcolm's lips.

"No." His eyes slid guiltily to the cane and down his injured leg. "Perhaps not."

Malcolm turned away and resumed his walk at a more leisurely pace.

"I did visit you once, you know. But you weren't yourself."

"Do you expect me to give you points for trying?" Malcolm shook his head in disgust. "Was that your last stand, your last assessment of my worth before you realised I was expendable?"

"You were not, and have never been, expendable to me, Malcolm." Jonathan squared his shoulders, staring at Malcolm's back as he continued to retreat. "I was in love with you- still am- and sometimes I can't believe what I did to you."

Malcolm slowed to another stop and half-turned back towards him, staring into the distant horizon where the remnants of the sun lingered and shone into the lines in his weary face. His jaw tensed; he said nothing.

"I was in love with you the night I first said it, I was in love with you the day you were injured, I was in love with you when I had to choose between my personal life and my duty as you convalesced on Earth. I was in love with you this morning when you told me to leave." Jonathan swallowed thickly, shifting on his feet. "I know I can never go back and repair what I broke. I know I can't take back those years of silence. I know you may never love me again as you did, and I understand. Now I think about it, I don't know why I came, I don't know what I expected from you... It was wrong for me to expect anything at all."

Malcolm's expression remained guarded as his eyes slid to regard him and Jonathan had to take a deep breath to combat the sudden tightness in his chest. "And it was my fault."

"Of course it was your fault," Malcolm scoffed, his voice unflinching, "but it was my job to protect you regardless. I was happy to serve you dutifully and forgive your misdemeanours, to guard your life even if it was your own short-sighted rage that put you in danger. I expected, at the very least, that you would love me afterwards. That was obviously overreach on my part."

Jonathan rubbed his face and crumpled to his knees in the grass, sitting back and cradling his head in his hands. "It wasn't... overreach. You should have expected that, you deserved that and I should have been there, but I couldn't. I let my own pain and duty get in the way."

"I knew your place, Jon." He grew quiet. "I knew where you had to be, body and soul, and I was prepared. I wasn't, however, prepared for the free fall and the silence. I wasn't prepared for you to core yourself of me and never look back. I'm not dead, Jonathan, I don't deserve to be treated like a dead man."

"You had to be dead to me, Malcolm. It was easier." Jonathan sighed, "I had to be the man they needed, to command and protect, even when I felt stripped, without you, of all that had made me into that man. I became a shade of him, my mind elsewhere, and they needed me more than they ever had before. I had to choose."

"Don't you think having lost my active career and my health in one blow, I deserved to keep one small thing? All I wanted was a letter or two."

"Sometimes, I wrote letters, but I froze when it came to sending them."

Malcolm dropped his head, his knuckles whitening on the head of his cane. "This changes nothing. I won't feel guilty because you weren't strong enough to live with what happened to me. I was alone. Luckily, I'm used to that." His back stiffened and his shoulders hunched slightly, "I'm not going to stand here and listen to how hard this has been for you, and I'm not going to tell you I've been miserable without you, because frankly, it's not true. We both understood what possible consequences there were to our relationship, you verbally acknowledged and accepted that gamble, remember? You deserve no sympathy and no forgiveness."

"I remember..."

"I don't think time can fix what time broke, Jonathan." Malcolm turned away and began to walk again, waving a dismissive hand. "Feel free to stay in any of the bedrooms for tonight, but I want you gone in the morning."

Jonathan stood there with a thousand more excuses on his tongue, but ultimately decided to voice none of them. He walked back into the house, neglecting his supper, and lay in the master bedroom unsleeping until the small hours of the morning.


	2. Living

Jonathan squinted into the morning light, tiredly pushing himself up from the pillows and finding the curtains open and window slightly ajar. He shuddered as a cool breeze lifted the hairs along his arms, reluctantly dragging himself over with a groan. As the outside world and all its brightness disappeared, he sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the window. This was the closest he'd get to the light now, just beyond the thin, impenetrable veil he'd drawn between himself and what he wanted most.

Now that he was all too aware of the world, returning to sleep seemed impossible, and the shroud of waking ignorance began to dissipate as he remembered yesterday. The fog cleared to reveal all the foolish things he'd said and felt he had been entitled to say.

He flopped back into bed, lingering between the heavy clouds of sleep and the imprint of light left on his retinas. Here, he could remember where he'd been. The smell of sweat and the feel of smooth skin, the taste of a mouth he'd never forget. There were occasions like today where he missed Malcolm more than he could articulate.

But he had to leave today; it wasn't fair to either of them.

When he'd pushed and pulled himself into his clothes from the day before and wandered down the stairs, he immediately noticed the drawing room door stood open. For half a moment, he hovered and listened for Malcolm's ambling shuffle or a clatter from the kitchen, but heard nothing and frowned. In the den, he discovered that everything from the night before still lay where it had been discarded, even the cooled food.

The kitchen was the same, and when he stared up through the orchard to the bee hives, he saw only the memory of Malcolm from yesterday, limping down the hill in the sunshine before his presence had soured the smile that had once so charmed him. But that memory triggered another, more deeply buried, of the previous night; Malcolm had wandered away into the darkness after their argument, and he evidently hadn't returned to the house since.

His feet led him hurriedly outside, over the hill and down to the woods. By the time he broke the tree line he was running. "Malcolm?" He tried to stop and listen for a response, but his legs kept pace, snapping twigs, as the question rang again through the foliage. "Malcolm?"

"Jon? I'm here!"

Jonathan spun so sharply towards the reply, his ankle twisted in the mud. He winced, but recovered quickly, glimpsing a broad expanse of water a few hundred feet ahead as his heart doubled its frightened pace and almost drowned out the fragile link to Malcolm.

When he reached the lake's edge, he all but fell over the man, finding him sprawled in the grass close to the rocky shore. His hair was matted to his scalp with sweat and morning drizzle and his skin had an unhealthy flush, eyes far too bright and bloodshot.

"Malcolm." Jon couldn't resist the urge to touch him, his fingers lightly grasping Malcolm's wrist. "Have you been out here all night?"

"Yes." He nodded jerkily as his jaw tightened, the movement interrupted by violent shivers.

"What happened?"

"Just... get me a painkiller. The kitchen."

Jonathan stared at him for half a second before he lurched back to his feet and ran back towards the house, sliding across the kitchen floor in his muddy boots until he found Malcolm's medicine and careening back out into the grounds once he had it in hand.

His fingers trembled as he crumpled to his knees and injected the analgesic into Malcolm's neck, watching his eyelids droop and his body slump back into the mud in relief. He gently wrapped his arms around Malcolm's back and helped him sit. "Come on."

Malcolm twisted himself out of Jonathan's grasp and shook his head. "I don't need your help." His hands curled into the earth and he breathed deeply, elbows trembling and struggling to support his weight.

"With all due respect, Malcolm, you do." Jon tentatively settled a hand between Malcolm's shoulder blades, the chill reaching through the damp shirt and sending a shiver up his arm.

"After our discussion, I fell asleep, when I woke up I was in too much pain to move. I'm fine now." He fumbled in the mud for his cane. "Thanks for your help."

As Malcolm attempted to stand, his shaking betrayed him and he slipped several times. Jonathan reached out and steadied him, and for a wonderful moment it was almost like holding him in his arms. Their eyes met, the sharp warning to which he'd become accustomed startlingly absent from Malcolm's gaze, before Jon shifted his grip to slide an arm around Malcolm's shoulders.

"I really don't need-"

"Shut up and let me help you, Malcolm. You're shaking so hard you won't make it five feet."

Malcolm's mouth snapped shut and he dropped his head, temples flexing as he ground his teeth, but after another two steps, Jonathan felt Malcolm grant him a little more of his weight. He carried it carefully and dutifully, keeping his pace measured so as not to put strain on Malcolm's weary nerves.

At the house, Malcolm began to pull away as they neared the drawing room, but Jonathan shook his head. "No, I'm helping you up the stairs and into a proper bed. After a night like that, your leg needs a real break."

Unexpectedly, Malcolm bowed his head again and kept his protests to himself, again entrusting Jonathan with a little more of his weight as they navigated the staircase and the upstairs hallway.

"Alright." Jonathan eased Malcolm onto the bed in which he'd slept. "Do you need anything?"

Malcolm carefully propped his cane up against the side of the bed and pulled off his shirt, working next on manoeuvring out of his trousers. His sense of modesty had never been particularly evolved around his lover, but Jon was surprised that, even after all this time, Malcolm felt comfortable enough to strip naked without a second thought.

"I'm going to be out for a few hours," he announced as he wrapped himself in the blankets and finally lay down. "I just need some rest, but I'll need another hypospray when I wake up." His fingers curled tentatively into the dirt-smeared sheets before turning over, palms to the ceiling, unfurling as his eyes met Jonathan's.

At the oblique words, and a motion Jonathan interpreted as an invitation, he indulged in a single fraught moment of incredulity before hastily shedding his clothes and crawling in, settling in the layer between the sheet and the blanket so as not to risk potentially awkward skin-to-skin contact. He lay stiffly on the other side of the bed and concentrated on keeping his breathing relaxed, summoning a gesture, but when he turned his head toward Malcolm, he found him fast asleep.

But once he'd looked, having been given the gift of time and leisure, he couldn't tear himself away. He began to notice all the small physical ways time, his injuries, and Jonathan himself had changed him. The awkwardness, and subsequent abandonment, of regular exercise had skimmed the once-sharp definition from his muscles, but his lacklustre diet kept him thin and wiry. Malcolm's closed lashes seemed longer and darker than Jon remembered, and just under the corner of his left eye he spied a pale blemish, identifiable as a scar when he leaned in closer, but not so close as to tempt himself into a kiss. If the blankets had not been tucked securely up around Malcolm's chin, he knew he could've seen many more of them curving and lancing across his skin- surgical, accidental, even self-inflicted.

Wanting more and yet afraid of finding too much, Jonathan squeezed his eyes closed and thought of the brief moment where he'd held Malcolm in the wind and rain, pushing thoughts of doctors, scalpels, knives and madness far from his mind. He eventually slept.

Malcolm woke him later with an unintelligible groan, chest quivering with quick, shallow breaths, and Jonathan cursed himself. He had intended to be casually available with a hypospray, water and a hot meal, but intentions meant little now, even as he lurched to his feet, all but crashing into the walls as he stumbled downstairs and retrieved another painkiller.

His fingers fumbled and shook with the instrument as he pressed it to Malcolm's neck, though thankfully his partner seemed to have only made it to the same level of clumsy awareness as himself. With a sigh, he flopped into the mattress face-first and closed his eyes, burying his hands underneath the cool pillow.

"Jonathan."

His name dragged Jon immediately from the precipice of returning sleep. He rolled onto his side and squinted at Malcolm. "What is it?"

Malcolm's eyes were abruptly very clear and bright, like pools of water. "Last night, I didn't want to listen to anything you had to say; I wanted you gone, I hated you so much I wanted to pretend I'd never known you. But after this morning, I'm forced to begrudgingly admit I'm glad you are here, and it's unfortunately leading me to reluctantly admit several other things." He rubbed his face and his hand fell into the sheets deliberately closer to Jonathan's.

Jon squinted, kneading his eye sockets with the heels of his palms. "Like what?"

"I miss you and even if I ignore you, that's not going to go away." Malcolm shrugged. "But I'm not ready to forgive you."

Jonathan frowned intensely, but the expression quickly faded. "I understand."

"The original pain emerged from being abandoned. Now you have returned, I can't give myself what I want because I can't stop being angry at you."

"There's nothing I can do to change the past," Jonathan mumbled helplessly. "However much I wish I could."

"I know, and to be fair, had you contacted me after those first few months in rehabilitation, I probably would have ignored you until this point, until you were tangible again."

"Well, then there's that."

"I'm just not a strong enough man to let go of the past."

"I don't think many of us are."

"You're probably right." Malcolm's eyes closed as he lost the will to keep them open. "But I confess, being alone just for the sake of hating you is miserable. I know the decision you made you would never make again."

"What exactly are you trying to say, Malcolm?" Jonathan's fingers skittishly touched Malcolm's wrist and fled.

"Admitting I essentially waited for you is precisely what I didn't want to happen when you finally came for me." His jaw tensed. "Means I'm compromised. But I already endured the horrible result of succumbing so easily to the wrong person - or maybe just succumbing at the wrong time, I should say - and I'm not afraid anymore.

"And I'm not going to lie, I wanted to punish you. My pride won't let me reward all that pain you caused with easy forgiveness." His eyes slid along the length of Jonathan's body, lingering unmistakably over his boxer shorts, a gesture neither of them missed. "But then I'm punishing myself and that gets terribly exhausting. I knew you'd come back. All along, I waited because I knew you'd come back. And if I knew that and I understood why you cut yourself off, then I can't fairly play this game anymore." He sighed heavily, a long drawn-out exhale, and then lifted his eyes to meet Jonathan's. "It seems to me there's just been too much time lost on lost time."

Jonathan couldn't fight the hopeful arch of an eyebrow, but the other soon joined it in disbelieving surprise as Malcolm's body slid closer and one warm hand settled on his cheek, thumb fondly stroking the stubbled flesh above his lip. The heat of his naked body radiated through the thin sheet separating them, Malcolm's heart once more thudding comfortingly close, slower and steadier than the elated pace of his own. His arms trembled as he wrapped them around the body he'd longed to hold for three long war-ridden years.

"Would it be inappropriate to kiss you?" Malcolm smiled, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "Having not forgiven you?"

Had Malcolm's mouth not been seconds from his own, Jon might have said yes, but as it was, he shook his head and swallowed thickly to moisten his throat. "I can see no immediate problems, and to be honest that's about as far as I can think right now."

"Indeed." Malcolm leaned in close and relaxed against Jonathan, the taut threads that had held them awkwardly apart coming loose, letting their bodies finally meet and meld into an intimate embrace.

Jonathan felt every inch of Malcolm, hot and welcome, as their mouths found one another, and suddenly the pulsing thud of his heart against his ribs eclipsed all other sensation, until he felt the response in each beat within his lover's chest. This was the kiss for which he had longed and feared he'd never receive, holding all the anxiety of a first and all the resounding depth of a last, desperate, but so intimately familiar and slow it bordered on lazy, with a vague clumsiness in the movements of tongues and lips though they knew one another unconsciously.

It was everything for which he had yearned and nothing like what he had imagined Malcolm would give him, a kiss of quiet passion that stoked no flames but lit him with warmth in all the places where he had once only felt anger, sadness, and regret.

When they parted, he mumbled into Malcolm's hair, "As long as we're together, I have faith that forgiveness will eventually come." His hand gently cradled the back of his lover's head, deeply inhaling the sweetness of beeswax underpinning Malcolm's familiar smell.

"Now we have time, I hope." Malcolm shared a weary smile and closed his eyes.


End file.
